


Silver Tongue, Golden Child

by Impostorism



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angry Wilbur Soot, Angst, But damn if he doesnt play favorites, Character Study, DreamSMP - Freeform, Eventual Death, Family Dynamics, Filicide, Gen, Golden Child Syndrome, Philza tries to be a good dad, Retribution, Villain Wilbur Soot, breaking news: eldest sibling cracks under pressure and develops a god complex, mcyt - Freeform, psychoanalysis on in-character personas, recent dreamsmp spoilers, sleepy bois inc - Freeform, you know the one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impostorism/pseuds/Impostorism
Summary: Wilbur Soot was the eldest of Philza's three sons.He prided himself on being unremarkable in the grand scheme of things- developed a keen sense of perfection that came from living on aggressive neutrality. He was a musician, sure, but he was not a warrior. Not like the rest of them.Tommy and Technoblade were flawed, but they enraptured those around them with their displays of power. Phil watched those boys with pride evident in his eyes. Played favorites, most assuredly.Wilbur had built himself up to be a golden child, free of maintenance and warranting of attention. He was the most polished chain of the three, but never the one that pulls the weight of destiny.Perfection meant nothing when you go overlooked.Wilbur Soot desperately wanted to make his father proud.
Relationships: No romance - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 132





	Silver Tongue, Golden Child

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of likely two chapters. Consider this your lead-up, dear compatriots, to the inevitable show that will be Wilbur's act!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy. This will be my first time ever writing any semblance of MCYT and I'm really excited! (To preface, I am basing these mentalities on their in-character personas and actions in SMPEarth and DreamSMP, not anything near their dynamics as real, actual people.)
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. ::]

TommyInnit. Technoblade.

Wilbur Soot.

The three sons of Philza. 

A family.

The four of them shared a home. It was nestled into the chill confines of a place no longer travelled by most. This place was theirs though, and no matter how forgotten it remained to the rest of the world, their little home was a haven among fantastical journeys. See, it was always warm inside the house- flames were at home in the living area’s giant fireplace, eagerly licking up their endless supply of wood kept so carefully stocked near their door.

No matter where they came from or where they went, they’d always be back at the same oak door. The same trampled-on carpet. The same heavy stone walls.

Technoblade had left earlier that year. He hadn’t come back, yet. He ‘had grand plans’, that’s what he told the rest of them. There was a glint in his eye when he spoke those words, something bright and unruly settled between leathery pig ears as he muttered vague plottings. Phil had slung an arm around his shoulder and held him close, going on about how proud he was of him, how to maintain a schedule, what great things are in store. He had spoken in private with Phil, then. About his plans. He was their father after all, why would he not? 

The night before Technoblade left, the four of them gathered around a rickety old table. The fire blazed merrily and the heat tinged their cheeks pink.

“You’re a warrior!” Their father smiled, “And a damn fine one at that. You’ve got a mind to you, sharper than most I’ve seen. Maybe even sharper than your sword. Whether you choose to trial by weapons or just plain old competition, you know how to win ‘em! You always do.” 

Phil wasn’t wrong. Techno was all those things, and still, he was more. His expertise was known and respected across many plains. He was a tactician. Unfailing. Significant. Brilliant. He stood tall and mighty- unmatched!

“I’m so proud of you, son,” Phil’s words carried gently across the table to Techno’s seat. The middle-aged boy hunched his shoulders and looked away, a small but sure smile on his face.

“I know.”

Wilbur clutches at a pen with fading ink, and the scratched out lyrics feel worthless. Are worthless. Compared to what? 

Phil was a good man. Technoblade’s plans were tactical and ingenious.

The youngest is oblivious and the eldest sits in bitter, silent resentment.

“I’ll miss you, Techno.”

For what it’s worth, Wilbur didn’t lie. The house grows quieter that night.

* * *

Tommy’s invitation to the DreamSMP wasn’t surprising, really. Dream had extended his hand in gracious offering, only for the rambunctious child to immediately bite tear at it for fun. That part was nothing new, although Wilbur would admit that it was surprising that the lot of them took so kindly to one another right away.

Tommy returned the first night with a grin brighter than he had ever seen. No matter how many times they had teased him, sniped him with an axe or bow, jailed him, or otherwise barreled into him with nefarious jokes, Tommy stood tall and proud and strong. His presence was a skeleton key of sorts- he could easily fit into any place he chooses, it’s simply a matter of what he unlocks that would be an issue.

DreamSMP… was a treasure chest in Tommy’s eyes. Just as Philza had been a locket that held access to the caring and softer parts of familial bonds.

Despite the almost endless prodding and poking at each others’ ribs, the members of the SMP had a unity that Tommy had intertwined himself in almost immediately. No matter how much blood was shed, it was a temporary release. Time and time again Tommy spoke about his shenanigans and his goals.

Philza reaches and ruffles the taller boy’s hair, laughing at Tommy’s excited ramblings. They were outside, the cool air nipping at their skin, but the two in front of him hardly seemed to care. They looked so much alike at that moment, bundled up in their cold-weather clothes all neat and tidy. Bright eyes, bright hair, bright expressions. 

It made sense. They may not be bound by blood, but the relations nestled deeper than that. Tommy was Phil’s ambition. He was the unrelenting part of their father that wasn’t tamped down with age or standards of maturity. Tommy mirrored the man’s presence: encompassing and worthy of attention.

Oftentimes the two would be made known for their similarities. Phil didn’t have to call Tommy his son to those unfamiliar to him. It seemed natural that they would be family. 

Wilbur was loud, sure, but his voice didn’t carry like the other two. He could maintain the attention, wriggle under the skin of fools like some parasitical earworm with soft music or melodramatic musings. 

Wilbur did not shine. He did not carry the warmth or the fire that burned in the chests of the other two.

Wilbur did not feel warmth, even as the heat of ambition erupted around him like a sun.

Tommy’s departure was not quick. Over the next few days, his presence grew less and less until all that were left were messages on a communicator.

He never said a goodbye. Not a proper one, at least. 

The fireplace no longer soothed the chill of a home that steadily lessened.

* * *

There were two of them, now. 

The house was quiet.

Wilbur filled his room with dismal chords of overplayed melodies, just to break away the monotony. 

Conversation was stagnant. Perhaps Phil took it as companionable silence- it’s not like Wilbur was the type for continued conversation. They were just in a small slump, yeah. Phil didn’t frequent the house as much as he did previously. Overseeing a house of two was leagues easier than a house of four, and he had obsessively made sure that his independence could be known.

He maintained the act well. 

He always has.

Wilbur was not a prominent figure among their family. He did not have the heart of a warrior or the ambitions of a leader. He held fractals of rage and mimicries of figureheads. Instead, he was a child of aggressive neutrality. He sang and wrote poetry, he based his livelihood around stories he could create with two hands and a pen- not an empire or weaponry.

There was nothing prominent about Wilbur Soot’s perfection. Perhaps he played himself too well. He could strive for independence and thus needed no repeated attention. He played his emotions into casual back-and-forths, never too angry but never too happy. His wants were easily attainable by his own self, and his weaknesses were so understated that on the surface-level they appeared to be fixed with ease.

Wilbur doesn’t blame Philza’s lack of attention to neglect. Wilbur did exactly as he wanted to. Philza had played into his masquerade so perfectly. It is not his father's fault that the consequences to his game were of the unsavory type.

And now the eldest felt hollow. Nothing but sad little songs to his name. 

His perfection was cracking. Wilbur appeared to want nothing from others; that is exactly what he had gotten. Philza had raised his child well, he did! So low-maintenance without his brothers. A good boy. What a good boy! 

“When was the last time you were proud of something I had done? When was the last time I gave you something to be fucking proud of?” He whispered harshly to the back of his retreating father, who had smiled and waved seconds earlier as he went off his land so tediously balanced between life and a single death.

Wilbur tapped his communicator, dull light casting a gentle glow on the frozen leaves surrounding him. There was a gentle silence in the snow. There was no need to play songs or hum under his breath to escape the noiselessness around him now. There was freedom in barren landscapes. There was nothing to judge him, now.

With others, Wilbur was powerful. He could enrapture the attention of any he chose. He misplaced his power the first time, using it to take away his presence and smooth over the rougher parts of his existence. A gray mottled boy in gray mottled earth.

Alone, he was vitriolic. There was nothing to lose when there was no one to listen, and how desperately he wanted out of this blandness. 

His brothers were figureheads of power, his father the same. They were suspended in the skies as idols, people to observe. 

The first time, he used his silver tongue as a means to appear golden. The perfect child. The eldest and most diplomatic. Unflawed and worthy of something more than appreciation but less than pride. It had been a well-enough execution of ideas.

There was no need to lie. He was alone now.

Wilbur’s perfection cracked like a glacier, and he would shamelessly admit to no one other than himself that the thing he wants most in life now was simple and unadulterated attention. That wasn't wrong to admit, was it? At the basis of humanity, there had always been a want to make yourself known. Struggle out of the measly semblances of existence and become a legend. Satisfaction is a concept well-loved by even the most hated. There was nothing wrong with wanting fulfillment. There was nothing wrong with finally, finally trying to get it.

Wilbur had failed to make his father proud. Failed to make a place among his brothers. He was well-read on manipulation. He knew all the buzzwords- how to please the right people. The boy was an entertainer, a musician, a creator of meaningless worlds.

A sentence, beautifully crafted to appeal to just the right senses, was typed into his device.

The first time he was too perfect.

But with the ping of his communicator and a second time now arranged?

Wilbur could be a _god._

* * *

_TommyInnit: Heard you were invited to the SMP, big man! Tell me when you get here and we can meet up so I can drag your ass through the mud._

* * *

There were plenty of TommyInnits in the world, but Wilbur knew this one well.

Temptations override ambitions. 

Wilbur Soot asked for a hand to help him make his place in the word. It is on this offered hand he tied his marionette strings. 

Philza had a disposition to chaos. 

With that in mind, Wilbur thinks he can _finally_ make his father proud.


End file.
